


Wrought in Crystal II

by Stormcalled (Raidho)



Series: In Perfect Love and Perfect Trust [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dragoon Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), FFxivWrite 2020, Gen, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Short Stories, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raidho/pseuds/Stormcalled
Summary: Entries for the 2020 FFXIVWrite challenge, following the adventures of the Warrior of Light and his associates.Both past and present.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: In Perfect Love and Perfect Trust [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1435858
Comments: 56
Kudos: 98
Collections: #FFxivWrite2020 Final Fantasy 30 Day Writing Challenge





	1. Crux

**Author's Note:**

> crux
> 
> noun  
> ˈkru̇ks
> 
> an essential point requiring resolution or resolving an outcome
> 
> As with all speculative fiction related to important plot moments we haven't seen, this may be rendered AU at some future date.

Glass crunched underfoot, but he barely heard or felt it, moving almost mechanically. Dust and soot yet choked the air, but he breathed deeply, uncaring when it caught in his throat and he swallowed a coughing reflex. These were signs of destruction of _things_ , and he cared naught for them, only for the robed figures laying in the streets--here an adult curled around a child, there three people hand in hand in hand. Some of them had succumbed to violence, by the gaping, bloody holes in their robes, exposing flesh. Some of them had even fought back, by the remains of twisted beasts here and there. Others, though, others--their masks soot streaked, their robes tattered--had simply… stopped. Sat down, or fallen, and expired quietly in the streets. His feet stopped of their own accord before one body collapsed in an open doorway, hands gripping the jamb as if she had clung desperately to life--yes, there were gouges in the wood there, a trail inscribed by each nail. With her soul departed but her mask on he knew her only by a thin silver bracelet, twined round by a braid of gold, revealed by the slip of her sleeve. A single concession to vanity for a privately beautiful woman with many suitors.

Glass crunched, but he did not move at the sound. A vast darkness drew up behind him, familiar, and he reflexively leaned into it, seeking comfort--only to draw away at the glittering iridescent veneer over it, sharp as shattered crystal. “Ah,” voiceless, almost too quiet to hear, behind him, and then Emet-Selch cleared his throat. “Azem.” His voice wavered.

Azem just stared, one rich green eye and one honeyed amber fixated on the body of the woman in the doorway. He’d last seen her not two days prior, laughing as she brought him a great stack of correspondence. She’d stood in the living room in his flat, teasing his husband, _“Finally get him all to yourself, hm?”_ black robes clinging to her full figure in a way that lent them the fullness of her personality. She’d been privy to the danger and all his concerns, as attache to his office, and glibly dismissed them--Azem would find a way, surely as the sun rose in the sky every day. And yet here she was, no mark on her, but struggling to the last.

“When?” welled up out of Azem’s tight throat, unbidden--his own voice sounded a touch alien, breaking his attention.

“...While you were fighting Therion. Or perhaps shortly after.” He did not add _there was no other way_ or _the sacrifice was necessary_ or anything else Azem might’ve expected--simply that. A fact. Voice soft. He understood. It meant Hades was still in there, somewhere, beneath that glittering surface that ran crystalline claws greedily over the shell of his soul when he reached out.

Azem closed the gap to her still form. That was nearly a day now, and if no one had moved her body out of the doorway of her own house, no one would. Her family was likely dead or unable. He knelt down on the steps, gently maneuvering her to face him. There were too many bodies for a proper burial, but he could give her the honor of remembrance. Azem slid back her hood, her long blond hair spilling free, and carefully removed her mask. Bright blue eyes stared accusingly up at him out of a peachy face gone grey in death. _You were meant to save us._ He arranged her body so that all passersby would see her face, and know her in death.

“They’ll be here any moment,” Emet-Selch said behind him, still in his place. He wished so desperately to sink back into the comfort of that darkness as he had so many times, the furious furnace of his own spirit _aching_ for that relief after last night, after this--Azem rose, turned, and finally looked at Emet-Selch. He looked tired beneath his mask, eyes ringed bruise-dark.

“Let them come,” Azem grated out, voice still tight. “They have much to answer for. As do you.”

“They may try to--” Emet-Selch’s face contorted into a pained grimace, and his teeth audibly clacked as he shut his mouth. “ _Bring you to His grace_ ,” he managed through gritted teeth.

“They will fail.”

“I know,” Emet-Selch breathed, relaxing out of the strange reaction--but Azem knew him well, knew what _Hades_ would have said.

He heard them before he saw them, the soft sound of several teleports followed by crunching glass. “Ah, here you are.” Azem stiffened as he turned to the sound of Lahabrea’s voice. “Brilliant job with the great beast, by the way, but as you can see you need not have bothered.” Azem snarled behind his full face mask, eyes narrowing, but Lahabrea continued seemingly unaware. “Azem. Please. The crisis is over--let us set our differences aside. Come back.”

Azem looked aside to the woman laid out on the stairs, her wide, unseeing eyes. “Did they know?”

“What Amaurotine wouldn’t give his life for his brethren? It has ever been our way, to act for the good of the community.”

He reached up, rubbing the fingers of one hand across the golden crown drawn atop his brow on his mask, smearing the sigil onto his hand. “I’ll be dead,” he growled, transferring the ink-like gold to both hands, “before He’ll have me,” then ran his fingers down from the eyes of his mask, across the angular planes of the cheeks--like rays of the sun, or tears, or blood. “And all of you first.”

Lahabrea crossed his arms, glowering. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Not today,” Azem answered. “There has been enough death today. But do not ask me to stand beside you.”

“Then I will ask you to stand apart,” Lahabrea said, voice booming. “You are a traitor to our people and to our God. We cast you out, Azem. You are of Amaurot no more.”

Azem was already walking.


	2. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sway
> 
> Looks like Azem's met his match.

A hundred scents assaulted the senses, searing meat and sticky sweets, spices, sweat, fragrant smoke. A riot of colors passed, an uncountable number of vague brushes of emotion: enthusiasm, revelry, disappointment, hunger lust--and everywhere dark skin, pale skin, eyes and hair of every shade, bare faces in laughter. Everything called to the sense of childlike wonder in him, and yet--and yet--he returned every few steps to the warm hand in his that tugged him through the crowd, the spill of bright hair in front of him, the _happiness_ wrapped up in sunset warmth. Music drifted over the din of the crowd, raucous and vibrant. 

They broke from the crowd into a square, lights floating amidst flowering jacarandas in the falling twilight. A small cluster of performers stood to one side, playing instruments both traditional and modern, and people danced in the square heedless of onlookers, smiling and laughing and trading off partners willy-nilly. After several trade offs the music stopped but for a low beat, and some dancers cheered, others kissed, others still laughed and left their final partner and turned to a previous one--and one couple began arguing, working their way out of the square and back into the crowd. The hand in his squeezed, pulled again. “Come on,” laughter chased under that rich, melodic voice, tugged him further out into the square during the pause. “When you said you’d never been here for the festival, I knew I had to bring you--that means in all your travels you’ve never done this dance.”

They squared up across from one another and Azem sheepishly admitted, “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“No?” More laughter, full lips spread in delight. “And here I thought you were good at everything.”

“We don’t really _dance_ in Amaurot,” Azem answered. “Not in public, leastways.”

This time the laughter was full-throated, and a little teasing, a little incredulous, he said, “Next you’ll tell me that story about you stripping naked in front of the Akademia isn’t true.”

“Oh, no, that one’s true.”

“ _Good_. I can just see you out there, naught but a mask and a smile, ranting. You’re just the man I thought you were.” The music picked up again, slow at first, and he began to move with the beat. “Here, I’ll show you. It’s not hard.”

It wasn’t. They went a round longer than the other couples, and by then Azem had the steps down, and was traded off whirling to a short woman with ebony skin and lovely amber eyes. She teased him good-naturedly for a misstep, then traded him off to a tall man who moved with a grace that seemed unreal with his lankiness. He arrived back where he started, to glittering blue eyes and wisps of bright red hair loose from their long tail, forming a halo around his companion’s face. “I confess my intentions here are not entirely pure,” his companion said, twirling with a step. “The dance is a bit of a matchmaking tradition. There’s a pattern all the dancers are following, trading each other off, but the number is always different. If at the end you wind up with the same partner you started with it’s considered auspicious.”

They parted again, each to different partners, and Azem missed a step again, too focused on trying to figure out how long they song had been going. How long remained? If there was a pattern, he couldn’t manipulate the dance to get back--to make _sure_ \--he looked through the crowd for every glimpse of his companion, for the flush of exertion and revelry in his cheeks, for the half-lidded looks he shot back, the alluring sway of his hips and the sash tied there swinging a counterpoint almost like a tail. They drew closer, far apart. The music grew faster, faster, the spins more breathless, the turns a flurry. His partners passed in a blur, and his heart raced as at last the music seemed to approach an end--there was a glimpse, close, but not quite---

With a note to spare they met, one hand raised and touching in the greeting gesture of the dance. His companion laughed as Azem twined their fingers together, and they drew closer together, still swaying a little with the beat between songs. Azem wrapped his free arm around his companion’s waist, while he settled his free hand against Azem’s shoulder and rested his forehead against Azem’s. “Looks like it’s meant to be,” he murmured, breathless and beaming with elated pride.

That was the last straw. “ _Tal_.” Azem kissed him, begging entrance at those full lips, wringing a little sound of surprised pleasure out of them as he earned it.


	3. Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small moment against the grand backdrop of storming a Castrum proves surprisingly tense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this belated fill for day 4, behold, finally: Aden's light party, circa Stormblood. Erdene and Tiergan belong to other players and are used with permission. You may see my [twitter](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) for details.

Aden didn’t have time for pity, to consider the fate of the twisted creature that’d once been a Garlean soldier, or a conscript, or perhaps a prisoner, barely had time to blink as a number of events unfolded at the same time: 

Across the room, something armored clattered to the floor as Tiergan shouted, “The door!”

A familiar electric sound kicked up, a deep hum and then the high crackle of frying circuitry as Merrick answered, “On it!”

At his side, with a gesture and a low hiss Erdene’s blast of wind ripped the wretched creature from the end of his spear, throwing it back. They turned as one, to see two Mhigans ducking below the door, Tiergan’s snow-white tail lashing furiously as he ran and Merrick moving more slowly, carefully as he kept pouring electricity into the controls, the arc of lightning between his backwards grip on his sword and the door shifting white-blue. They ran, and the door began to shudder and drop by increments. “It’s about to short!” Merrick called out over the electric drone.

Tiergan looked from them to Merrick, to the shuddering door, and back, as if calculating the distance and if he’d be any help. “Come on!” he shouted, gesturing for them to hurry with his sword in hand. With a loud _crack_ the door rapidly slid down, and Merrick dropped the spell. Just shy of the door, with little space to spear, Aden and Erdene both dropped down onto their sides, his drachenmaille giving an awful screech of metal on metal, and their scales grinding out a bizarrely resonant hum. At the very last second Tiergan knelt down and took the full weight of the door on his shield--but only a second as both of them slid under. Tiergan ducked away and the door slammed shut, leaving a scrape in the paint of his shield.

Aden kipped up, and Erdene simply rose to their feet, whether by magic or sheer _weirdness_ remained unseen. They looked over at Aden, dark eyes glittering bright, scaled tail lashing in excitement, and made a little chirping sound, the fingers of one hand tapping against their staff before asking in their eerie, gravelly voice, as if they hadn’t both just _nearly_ been smashed in half by a falling door in a Garlean Castrum, “Onward?”


	4. And Many Happy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ninety years is not so long to be together, when you're nigh immortal. Hardly worth celebrating, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a sideways fill for the prompt "Nonagenerian". You can yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) and find info about supporting my work there as well!

With a soft _pop_ blue and white plaid blanket appeared mid-air, floating softly down. Two sets of hands grabbed it, hastening its descent, pulling it taught from the corners and smoothing it out atop the grass. “Do you think Hades is having any trouble keeping him occupied?”

Hythlodaeus’ eyes were bright behind his mask, the smile curling his lips devious. “He popped into my office yesterday and spent a whole _hour_ agonizing about what to do. He was so fraught over it, ‘twas as if he were a student again, not a great sage. Ah,” Hythlodaeus realized what’d just come out of his mouth and laughed. “ _Oh_ , don’t tell him. _Do not_.”

Azem chuckled. “My lips are sealed--for now.”

They finished setting up, everything in its place, and Hythlodaeus departed by teleport with a flourishing bow. Azem stepped back, taking in the scene: the blanket sat on the edge of a meadow of beautiful flowers, just slightly in the shade of the surrounding forest, looking down from the mountainside across rolling foothills and the long arc of the sun nightward. There’d be a fantastic sunset, and beautiful stars, and if he were _very_ lucky, a lovely ring of light from the sunrise--but perhaps they’d be home by then. A lidded basket sat to one side, and two bottles of _very_ fine wine along with two glasses. They’d spent a little time picking through the meadow for flowers very close to opening, and coaxed them along--an hour or two wouldn’t disrupt their natural cycle overmuch, and that was desperately important to Azem. Let them be as nature intended.

He waited a few minutes more, because the _timing_ was crucial, and then _called_ someone to his side. The sigil appeared floating in the grass beneath the trees, the rays of the sun arrayed around the point of arrival, and in a flash of light his love appeared, hood thrown back and the long braid of his bright hair exposed, cheeks a little red, rich teal eyes narrowed behind his mask. Tal groaned, leaning forward dramatically and removing his mask as soon as he realized Azem wasn’t wearing his. “ _Thank_ you--if I had to spend one moment more explaining the history of Carcosan barter economics to Emet-Selch I was going to _lose my mind_.” He straightened up and looked around, noticing the meadow, and the blanket, and made a little sound of annoyance. “You put him up to that.”

Azem gave a sharp, short bark of a laugh as he stepped onto the blanket and beckoned Tal over. “I did! To keep you from asking where I was and what I was doing. I didn’t expect him to be so _bad_ at it.”

“Well he certainly kept me _distracted_.” Tal followed, and sat when Azem gestured for him to do so, and accepted one of the long-stemmed wine glasses, and held it as Azem uncorked the bottle. “I won’t ask what you traded for _that_ ,” he said, eying the label, “but I imagine you had to bring it straight here, didn’t you?”

“It wouldn’t have been the first time I brought a controlled substance into Amaurot.” Azem poured, grinning. “But yes, I did bring it straight here. Best not to tempt fate.”

When he finished Tal swirled the wine in the glass, admiring the rich purple. “You would’ve been wiser to send Hythlodaeus.” Then he looked up, a smile curling one corner of his full lips, and raised a brow. “But he was here with you, wasn’t he?”

“Perhaps.” Azem poured himself a glass, and finagled the cork back into the bottle one-handed while Tal looked around, humming slightly.

“I can’t quite figure out what he did,” Tal finally concluded. “There’s nothing jumping out and yelling that it was changed.”

“Then we did a good job picking the spot and doing almost nothing.” Azem sat down with him, close enough that their knees touched, looking out across the field of flowers from cool shade.

“And the occasion?”

“You love a good mystery, don’t you?” Azem held up three fingers, said, “You have this long to figure it out,” and silently began counting down. At the very last moment realization dawn on Tal and as Azem curled the last finger down Tal raised his glass.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

Azem tapped Tal’s glass with his own, grinning like a fool. “Ninety years. Here’s to many, many more.”

Tal raised his glass to full lips, smiling, and said just over the rim, “You’re going to do this every year, aren’t you?”

“Only the ones you don’t beat me to it.”


	5. Clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha is no stranger to the ruined spires of Ishgard--but he is to calling them _home_. The connection renders the clamor of the Firmament too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My entry for day 8, Clamor. You can yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) and find info about supporting me there!

He was standing at Aden’s side, slightly back, as his love spoke to a craftsman in the Firmament when the first explosion came--workmen clearing rubble, somewhere away from active construction. Raha knew it would happen, and still flinched, reflexively looking for a source. A plume of dust rose out of the ruined section of the city, and the air felt strangely heavy and sluggish. Distant shouts turned to cries and screams, the rhythmic impact of heavy machinery the metal-on-stone clang of magitek armor stalking these very streets, and his ears pinned. He’d been young then, too, no Tower to reassure him of his ability--just as he was now. _This_ time he had far more to lose, though, and when he looked back he saw ruined streets, as they had been then. While his heart leapt into his throat he reached out, groping for the solidity his body knew stood nearby--he found leather under his fingers. “Aden,” he managed, in a harsh whisper.

He didn’t look, because he knew he wouldn’t see him there, with some horrible certainty. So he didn’t see Aden turn from his conversation mid-sentence, the look of alarm and recognition that immediately bloomed on his face. He grabbed Raha’s arm, but did nothing that might _enclose_ him. They turned, the city reeling in a blur of ruins and rebuilt, things that were and would never be, and Raha screwed his eyes shut. It’d all been some dreadful nightmare, a taunting fantasy worked up in his longing, and he was back where he started, all of that to live through again--his breath turned short even as he railed against the thought. His Haldrath had him by the arm, the spectre that’d led him to safety then, and he repeated that to himself. They were going to safety. They were going to safety. They were going--

The hand on his arm tugged him down into grass, and it felt so incongruous against his skin his ears perked to running water covering the distant sounds of mayhem/construction, the sweet smell of flowers over mortar and sawdust. Raha felt dizzy and nauseous, and drew his knees up and settled his head between them, trying very hard not to be sick all over the grass. He failed, but twisted away first so he wouldn’t be sitting on a pile of it.

“You back?” Raha slowly became aware of the hand gently holding his braid up from his shoulder, but otherwise Aden wasn’t touching him, just close. Close enough to feel his body heat against the chill. He didn’t dare open his mouth or shake his head right now, so he just made a little hum. Everything felt _heavy_. He righted himself, and _then_ Aden’s hand slipped from his braid to his back, a familiar, comforting weight against the lead in his limbs.

Raha bit back his reflexive _Sorry,_ swallowing thickly instead. Somehow Aden seemed to hear it--the Echo, probably--and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, twined his tail over Raha’s. “I’ve got you.”

“I came here,” welled up instead, throat raw from bringing up his lunch, even if he’d told the story before--he needed the words. “Looking for a copy of Heavensward. I saw Fortemps Manor. I saw things that’d belonged to you. But your house--it was gone, long, long before. You saw.”

“I did.” Quiet, calm, solid. It was everything he needed right now.

“There were raiders attacking the city,” Raha continued. “Salvaged magitek armors. Looking for a water crystal, I think. I was--alone, for a time. I wasn’t afraid then but now, now I--” He finally looked up, catching the mismatched gaze fixated on him, one rich green eye, one honeyed amber. “You’re here. You’re really _here_. You _belong_ here, but you weren’t here, and your house-- _our home_ \--”

Aden leaned down, pressing his forehead to Raha’s. He brought his free hand--his left hand--over to close around Raha’s, curling his fingers into a loose fist. He felt the weight of both rings pressing into his skin, and took a deep breath--the flowers around them, wood, leather. _Aden_. He instinctively reached out for the bond they no longer shared, but there was--something there, some primeval spark that felt like ancient memory, the thing _behind_ him. “My home _was_ there,” Aden said, voice soft and solid and _real_. “It’s always been wherever you are.”

“ _Aden_.” Raha leaned into him shamelessly. This was _Ishgard_ , surely half the adults here had suffered this malady, and one man weeping all over another in the grass wasn’t strange at all.


	6. Lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in manicured, perfect Amaurot, sometimes it's best to just let a wild thing grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My entry for day 9, Lush. You can yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) and find info about supporting me as well!

It’s too loud, and too _full_ , and for a moment he loses himself--he _remembers_ himself. He is the nameless young man yet to be coaxed out of the wild by a patient hand, and all of Amaurot is a wildfire in his soul where should be silence. He cannot fight a wildfire, or has not yet _figured out_ how to do so, so he runs.

He has not lived in Amaurot long, and his time here heavily curated--which areas are safe, which are not, deemed entirely, he has come to realize, by the threat _he_ poses--accidental or otherwise--and the scandal of his very existence--and the efforts of his caretakers to civilize him. None of that comes to mind, of course, only that he reaches unfamiliar streets and runs blindly. He comes, at last, to a park, white crushed stone lanes lined with flowers and trees, and he eschews them, making for the deepest reaches, cutting through the lawn. At last he comes to a clearing where the path makes a loop, encircled in trees, and kicks off his shoes and throws down his mask and drops into the grass.

It is not so perfectly manicured here where no one will see--or perhaps intentionally let go wild, for those who might be like him at heart. Here it is quieter, the souls passing drifting in ones and twos and threes like clouds in the clear sky. He is not forced to draw himself into a tight ball to avoid the raw brush of them, the delicate, polite barriers like sandpaper. He hears only snatches of their strange sounds, does not taste them like bizarre colors in the air or feel them on his skin like this, one by one and unaware of his presence. The sun is almost directly overhead, and he raises a hand to just barely block it. The grass is soft, and brushes against his bare skin without intent. He remembers himself, he loses himself, slowly and in pieces instead of all at once in a panic.

“...This way, I think…”

He hears them long before he feels them, and drops his hand to cover his eyes. When they draw near they linger for a moment, and he imagines some silent communication between them--they always seem to be like that--before they drop into the grass next to him. Between the two of them there is comforting silence--each of them in his own strange way a barrier to the spiritual noise of the city at the periphery of his senses. They remain there in silence for a long moment, twin sentinels against the din while he pieces together the parts of who he’s supposed to be and how he’s supposed to act with a mask on.

“...Oh,” Hythlodaeus finally breaks the silence. “I do see why you took your shoes off. This is quite nice.”

“This is probably someone’s secret project,” Hades says. He imagines him folding both hands behind his head as he says it, by the little shift in his voice. “I wonder what they do to make the grass so lush. Good spot for a nap.”

He raises his arm, squinting at the sunlight around his hand. “They just let it grow.”


	7. Blood and Blaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he was known as the Warrior of Light, Aden Dellebecque fights the greatest danger he has ever faced--alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My belated entry for day 12, Tooth & Nail. You can yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) and find info about supporting my work there as well!
> 
> This one got way, way away from me.
> 
> Please heed the graphic violence content warning for this chapter in particular.

A blow from the shaft of a spear buckled his knees forward, and he twisted his tail wildly in an attempt to stay upright as he collapsed--fruitless, as the butt of the spear followed in the center of his back, and Aden landed face-first in the dirt, prostrate before the twisted beast they called _Ifrit_ while the bastards who’d landed him and countless others here begged for mercy. He struggled back up to his knees with his hands tied, head low and ears slack. They’d stripped him of his armor first thing, and his previous struggles against the ropes had done nothing but rub his wrists and his forearms bloody and raw, the oozing scrapes now caked with sand--it wasn’t the first time he’d fallen like this since his capture, rubbing dirt into the evidence of his attempts to escape. No, the first time Ungust had been there, and planted a boot in his back, laughing, before he leaned down and whispered in Aden’s ear exactly what came next. He’d never held any illusions about the danger of adventuring, that sating his wanderlust and his need to be behind a spear might lead to an unceremonious death--but this was a different threat, a death of the self. He might still amble about, still wield a spear and feel no satisfaction in the reel of it through the air and the tension in his arms, wander through strange places and feel no sense of wonder. He might even turn down the long lane between tall trees to his mothers’ farm and feel nothing. It was by far worse than death.

“Hey kid.” Aden only turned his head just enough to glimpse the soldier next to him out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t be scared.” The soldier hesitated, a little tremor in his own voice, barely perceptible. “You’re a Seeker, right? Pray to the Warden. She’ll--” One of the Amalj'aa silenced him with a cuff to the back of the head, knocking him off balance. Aden looked away, kept his head down. He’d never prayed once--in the deep woods they’d paid more homage to the Elementals for practical reasons. He was too far away to hope for that sort of intervention. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t know any prayers to Azeyma, or what to pray for. Justice? Justice would come too late.

Ifrit bade them rise as his servants, reared back, and then _breathed_. Blue flame washed over them, searing hot, and Aden smelled his own hair and fur singeing. parts of his clothes caught, the rope around his arms burned away and he nearly tipped over at the loss of tension. It all went out as suddenly as it had started, as if all the air had been sucked out of the fire, even as the soldiers around him, still wreathed in flames, ceased their struggles. When they rose, praise on their lips, Aden remained on his knees, numb, staring up at the soldier who’d tried to comfort him. A different fire rose in him, even as his body remained still and numb.

“Impossible!” Thick, clawed fingers snagged in his hair, jerking his head back, and Aden grimaced as he twisted with the pull, gazing up into Temugg Zoh’s questioning face. “By what sorcery do you resist my master’s will?” He pulled harder, and Aden finally made a sharp little sound of pain as the motion twisted his neck at an impossible angle, rage bubbling up hot and dark in him. “Does your soul belong to another? Speak!”

“I--”

Ifrit’s roar cut him off, and Temugg Zoh’s fingers tightened. _I smell not the taint of another upon thee._ Aden’s ears flicked back, following the retreating footsteps of the tempered soldiers and the Amalj'aa as Ifrit stepped forward, the heat radiating off his body setting the burnt patches of Aden’s clothes smoldering again. _The truth of thine allegiance waxeth clear--thou art of the godless blessed’s number._ Even Temugg Zoh let go as Ifrit drew too close, and Aden shakily rose to his feet. The massive, bestial face loomed but ilms away, Ifrit’s hot breath singeing his hair, and Aden blinked rapidly as he tried to stand his ground even as if felt as if he stood in a bonfire. _The paragons warned of thine abhorrent kind._ Ifrit twisted his head, scrutinizing Aden with the fiery embers of his eyes. Aden made a show of looking away, as if he could no longer abide the heat, casting about instead for the spear he’d heard a retreating Amalj'aa drop.

 _Thine existence is not to be suffered._ Ifrit lifted one great clawed hand into the air, and Temugg Zoh _ran_ \--so did Aden, missing a step when Ifrit’s hand slammed into the ground and inscribed a circle of fire around them.

He snatched up the spear and skidded to a stop, wheeling around to face Ifrit. “You’re right,” Aden growled. “I belong to no one--and you’re not taking anyone else today!” He charged, and Ifrit breathed once more. Aden threw himself under the stream of fire, felt it singe the tips of his ears, but the righteous anger in his breast burned hotter than any flame. Aden dove under the swipe of one claw, rolling to his knees and thrusting up--but the swipe of another turned his thrust at Ifrit’s neck from a piercing blow to a deep line scored across his throat, molten ichor oozing out.

Aden went flying, the gouged claw marks across his side half cauterized by Ifrit’s flame, and scrambled to right himself just ilms from sliding into the ring of fire. The ground beneath him grew hot, little rocks in the sand glowing like coals, and he kipped to his feet and started running again, seeking any safety. Ifrit followed, roaring, and Aden’s breath grew short after so long spent with his heart in his throat--from the moment the sun had gone dark in eclipse and Ifrit had made his appearance, he’d been a mess of fear and adrenaline--the tatters of his armor padding slicked to him with sweat. Looking over his shoulder he dodged one blow only to be tossed aside by the next, _almost_ dodging, but his ears flicked to a strange sound. There was a beat--not the pounding of his heart--in the instant before Ifrit caught him and slammed him to the ground.

Stunned, breathless, Aden coughed, heat and dust intervening in his effort to suck in new air. Another beat, and Ifrit leaned forward, about to put his full weight down--Aden kipped up as much as he could, digging one boot into the line of gore at Ifrit’s throat. The harder the primal pushed down, the harder Aden pressed up. Burning ichor drooled down his boot, leather sizzling under it, dripped down and burned new holes through his clothes, searing his skin--finally with a roar Ifrit’s claw closed around him and snatched him up--another beat-- _threw him_ \--no beat before he landed, cracking his forehead against one of those red-hot rocks in the sand. He righted himself, dizzy and wheezing for breath, as blood trickled down over his right eye, obscuring his vision. He had the presence of mind to shake the burning ichor from his clothes then realized there were more holes than fabric left in his padded jerkin, and ripped it off. The ichor had begun to harden over his boot like lava. His ears flicked to the sound of Ifrit approaching, but he couldn’t force himself past hands and knees, head swimming. Another beat, and Aden threw himself to the ground beneath Ifrit’s breath, another beat--he rolled this time, avoiding a claw he could not have seen. The speed was all his own, but some of these things he could not _see_ , could not _know,_ and when he listened the beat chained together in a strange music. It fell in line with the natural flow of combat, the moments when it felt just right to twist his spear, to dive in for a blow--and listening he wove between Ifrit’s fury, claws scoring shallow lines across his back.

They traded glancing blow after glancing blow. Finally, he sank the spear so deep in Ifrit’s side that when he ripped it out a spray of burning ichor followed, and while the primal roared he struck a shallower blow on his flank, used the spear to lever himself up and onto Ifrit’s back. The primal bucked, trying to throw him off, and Aden shifted his weight along with the movements as if he were riding a rowdy chocobo, even as the ichor on one boot began to glow and liquefy and the rubber of his other sole melted. He slammed the spear down between two clearly defined vertebrae, high on Ifrit’s back, and with a _crack_ the spear sank down. He pushed, and while the primal thrashed the rest of the spear head disappeared.

Ifrit lurched one way, and the spear shaft glowed with heat--Aden threw himself the other. Ifrit managed one final blast of fire as Aden landed, and all he could do was curl into a ball and roll away, hoping. It was short, though, and he rolled to put what’d caught out, coming back up to his knees just in time to see the primal disperse in a puff of fiery aether.

The air cooled so rapidly with Ifrit gone he shivered, the sky still in a strange twilight from the eclipse overhead. There beside the nearly destroyed Amalj'aa spear lay a fiery orange crystal, much like the blue one he’d found at the base of the Lifemend stump. As the reality that Ifrit was slain set in his righteous anger remained, his oldest and dearest companion, but adrenaline fled him. Every breath felt like a lance wedged itself in his chest, and a hundred burns prickled and seared. He staggered forward, wincing with every step as if he walked on daggers, a sickening _squish_ in one boot as if it were half-full of blood. Aden collapsed to his knees, hands trembling as he reached for the spear, wrapping his hand around the charred shaft. It wasn’t over. He needed to get out of here. Evade the Amalj'aa somehow, because he was in no state to fight. His other hand closed over the crystal, and the vision was nearly too much strain.

Aden resurfaced flat on his face, ears pricking to ringing steel and shouts. One hand flexed around the shaft of the spear, and he drew the other beneath him, half-swallowing an involuntary cry of pain down to a grunt. “No, no.” He barely recognized that voice, and a hand very carefully pressed to his shoulder. “Stay down. I’ve got you.”

He ignored it, and the horrible stab of pain in his chest that made his breath hitch, levering himself up and all but throwing himself into a sitting position. His vision swam for a moment, and he blinked against returning sunlight as Thancred hovered over him, frowning. “Aden.” He sounded uncertain--like it’d taken a moment to remember his name, and Aden scowled, then immediately regretted it as he felt his lips crack and bleed. “Pray, forgive my lateness.” Thancred’s concerned frown twisted into a wry little grin, and he continued, “I was delayed by a congregation of Amalj'aa zealots. I swear, each seemed more evangelical than the last!”

Aden found himself suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to plant a fist right in the middle of that smug face--who’d let him face this _alone_ \--and he gave into it. He missed, uncoordinated, and Thancred caught him when he pitched forward, a pathetic little mewl escaping him as his burns brushed cloth. “I owe you an apology,” Thancred murmured.

 _Yeah, you do_. But he had no more strength left in him to fight, and the sounds of battle grew more and more distant, and Aden was unconscious before he heard the rest of what Thancred had to say.

* * *

Aden felt strangely puffy, and unbelievably thirsty, and he _hurt_ in ways he hadn’t realized a body _could_ hurt. Some distant, repetitive sound caught his ear, a little _thunk-ssshh-thunk-ssshh_ and would not let him be, but he found he could not rise to figure it out or stop it.

“...No. No, I think not.” Silence--or rather, a very, very soft, tinny voice, too indistinct to make out. _thunk-ssshh._ “No,” the nearer voice. _thunk-ssshh._ A rustle of cloth. “He needs a serious healer. The physickers in Drybone won’t do.” _thunk-ssshh._ “Yes, probably. If he’s still unconscious it should work.” _thunk-ssshh._ It sounded like a dagger repeatedly buried in wood and pulled out. “Half a bell, Horizon.” 

* * *

Aden couldn’t remember closing his eyes, but when next he opened them it was to a stone ceiling and soft light, the cool, dry, slightly dusty air characteristic of a sunken building in Thanalan. Soft clothes rubbed against oversensitive recently healed skin in a way that made the fur on his tail fluff up in discomfort.

“Oh! You’re awake.” He bolted upright and immediately regretted it, every part of his chest and half his stomach feeling like so much ragged meat, his neck like it'd been twisted half off. “I should go tell someone!” Yda was through the door in a flash, the chair she’d been sitting in tipped over in her wake.

Aden slowly, painfully scooted back, pushing a pillow behind him with his elbow. He looked down to find a band of bandages low around his chest, smaller ones here and there, and a great swathe of them along one side of his stomach. His arms were much the same, his right arm above the elbow a random patchwork of them, the two smallest fingers of his right hand bound and splinted, both his forearms fully covered wrist to elbow--where the ropes had been. Other places he’d been burned seemed fully healed, but he had blessedly little experience with magical healing, and no idea why some things seemed wrought anew and others lay beneath thick, white dressings. Experimentally, and full of fear at the memory of his soles burning on Ifrit’s back and that awful _squishing_ sensation, he brushed his feet against the sheets--the skin felt tender and nothing more, no bandages as far as he could tell.

Leaning against the headboard he got his breath back, and looked around. The quilt atop the bed was largely pink, and a little dresser to one side was scattered with cosmetics and brushes and a little dish of hairpins. Heavy bookcases stood to the other, and squinting in the half-light he made out titles about political theory and history. He guessed this was Minfilia’s room, as no one else seemed important enough to merit their own private quarters.

Wherever Yda had gone, it seemed, she had not found who she was looking for--or perhaps anyone who mattered enough--or perhaps anyone who _cared_. She was gone for a long time, and Aden’s ears twitched in the uncomfortable silence of sunken stone in Thanalan. He missed the Shroud just now, the creaky old wood farmhouse, the occasional cry of a chocobo outside in the pasture, humming insects and singing birds and the susurrus of leaves in the wind. Sometimes you’d hear the ranch hands calling to each other outside, or Ma’s heavy boots on the floor downstairs, or Ma and Mam murmuring to each other, laughing. No, it was quiet here. If there were any conversations going on outside these walls, he heard no murmurs. If there were any birds singing, or the waves crashing on the seawall, the heavy stone swallowed them up.

Aden was just as alone as he’d been on the battlefield against Ifrit, and he leaned his head back against the headboard, swallowing thickly. He closed his eyes and felt the heat on his skin all over again, saw the fiery twilight of the eclipse.


	8. Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14, Part. Krile asks Raha a very difficult question, and presses him for an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little lewd, and a bit of paparazzi-style voyeurism.
> 
> You can yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled) and find info about supporting my work there as well!

One moon on and Raha finally had a moment to breathe; the Tower was sealed, Sapphire weapon dealt with, their marriage made public in a rather sudden way at the Moonfire Faire, introductions made to Aden’s family, reunions had with those near and dear to him. They spent roughly an equal amount of time in Ishgard and in Mor Dhona, traveling via aetheryte--no problem for Aden, but still a little taxing for Raha. At the moment, however, he found himself in Mor Dhona, with a cup of tea, mostly alone in the Rising Stones with an old, dear friend, all the sad news they needed to share long done.

“Raha,” Krile said, putting down her mug. “I don’t believe I’ve had the opportunity to congratulate you yet.”

“Pardon?” he asked, ears perking forward.

“On your marriage!” she said, grinning--he knew that smile, even after so long, the gleam in her eye one of mischief. “To the most highly sought after man in Eorzea, at that.”

He sputtered for a moment--putting it in such terms irritated him a little, he found. “It’s not like I was _trying_ for that. He was my friend first, and just happens to be… everything else that he is.”

“Well, I have gotten to know him quite well over the past few years, and heard much of public opinion.” She made a show of shifting the newspaper next to her. “His many… _assets_ are well known, as you are no doubt aware from your extensive research.” 

Finally she tossed the paper into the middle of the table, and Raha caught sight of the headline. It was another gossip rag, this one out of Ul’dah, higher quality print than the ones in other regions--as good as if not better than the more news-oriented papers--folded open to a two-page spread of a dozen pictures of Aden working in the Firmament--here up close, arms flexed on the draw of a saw blade, thin, sleeveless black work shirt clinging tight to his muscular body and leaving _very little_ to the imagination--there bent over a railing doing _something_ , tail curled in an unconsciously alluring way, trousers hugging his ass. Raha blushed, but he couldn’t help himself, eyes drawn to each image in sequence. Each image seemed, impossibly, more lurid than the last, taken at _exactly_ the right time to find the erotic in a very attractive man going about his day. He railed at the violation of Aden’s privacy, to paint him in such a light in a mundane task, and yet part of him also wanted to see _more._

“Well,” Krile said, and Raha jerked his head up to see her lowering her mug--he hadn’t noticed her taking another sip, “what’s your favorite part?”

“Krile, are you--I--” He felt himself flush, and she waggled an eyebrow at him.

“Come now, Raha, you had no qualms telling me all about your conquests in school. Is it his _intellect_?” She mimed a flex with one arm. “His _personality_?” She made a grabbing motion with both hands, absolutely universal in all languages and cultures, and he realized with some mortification yes, yes he’d been _exactly_ like this once and thank the _gods_ he’d lived in the bliss of forgetfulness so long. “His _generosity_?” She described with her hands the curve of an ass--a little too _accurately_ for Raha’s liking. “His _stamin--_ ”

“Stop!” He buried his face in his hands, groaning, and Krile laughed softly. “Oh, what if I said _everything_?”

“I’d say you’re lying,” she answered, just a little sing-song. “Oh--oh I think I’m having a vision--it’s his--”

“His _sense of adventure_ ,” Raha said, and he stood up and ran a hand down his stomach, as if showing off his own abs buried beneath a few layers of fabric. “But by the Twelve, there isn’t a single part of him you couldn’t bounce a gil off of. He really is almost perfect.”

Krile _howled_ with laughter, leaning back in her chair, and when she'd recovered just enough breath she gasped out, "Congratulations, Raha, and I truly do mean it--you deserve every ilm of him."


	9. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azem receives a visitor who only has his best interest at heart--honestly, truly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entry for day 15, ache! You can yell at me or find information about supporting my work on twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled).

_...for the mutual benefit of our peoples… in recognition of…_ The words on the page blurred together for what felt like the hundredth time and with a snarl Azem propped his elbow against the desk and settled his cheek into his hand, covering his right eye with his fingers. It throbbed, aching all the way back into his skull, like he could _feel_ the nerves all the way to their tips. He rubbed ineffectively at his temple with his thumb, little more than vain distraction. Far worse hurts he’d endured, but it proved persistent, the _way_ it hurt creeping in between his thoughts and driving him to distraction. The momentary darkness eased it some, but not enough, and he growled in frustration.

“Still bothering you?”

He lifted his head reflexively, looking up, and winced as his eye adjusted to the light and slowly resolved. The left served him just fine, but for a moment Emet-Selch stood in the doorway of his office half a blurry smear. “Yes,” he admitted, grudgingly.

Emet-Selch pulled himself from the doorway in an almost catlike lope, but his crossed the room smooth and undramatic. “Let me see.”

“You don’t know anything about--”

“Shut up.” Emet-Selch stopped beside him and leaned back against the desk, grabbed Azem’s chin with one hand and very carefully removed his mask. Azem’s gaze darted briefly to the open doorway; there was _always_ a surprise when he was in some compromising position. “ _Look_ at me.” He was feeling bossy today, apparently, and there’d be no resisting without a real fight, so Azem did as he was asked.

“Hm.” He tasted magic, just a little spark of it , and Emet-Selch turned his head side to side, swapping from looking at his right eye to his left. Azem fought the urge to look at the doorway again--with his luck it’d be Igeyorhm’s secretary come to ask something or other of him and in a week’s time _I saw Emet-Selch and Azem in Azem’s office and Azem had his mask off_ would turn into a full-blown affair. “ _Hm_.” It was intimate, surely--but not the way an outsider might interpret it. “Stop that,” Emet-Selch said, scowling. The sensation of a vast darkness drew up on either side of him, familiar and comforting--Azem relaxed as if on command. “If anyone walks in I’ll give them such a tongue lashing they’ll be crawling on the way out.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“You _would_.” Emet-Selch turned his head again, more slowly this time. “I still struggle to believe you managed this all by yourself. And yet here’s the evidence, quite _literally_ staring me in the face. Do you know why the new one is golden?”

“The seat,” Azem answered, as if that explained everything. “If I lose the other one I suppose we’ll nearly match.”

“Don’t,” Emet-Selch said, lips thinning into a fine line between his words. “You’d scarcely look like yourself.”

A strange pressure built behind his eye, then an uncomfortable sensation almost like _wiggling_ , and finally a _jerk_ of pain--Azem drew away with a hiss, covering his eye.

“You’re right!” Emet-Selch quipped, grinning, arms crossed when Azem looked at him with his good eye, still the vibrant green he was born with. “I don’t know what I’m doing, as it turns out. But I think you’ve got a wire loose in there.”

“A _wire_ loose--what does that even--” He removed his hand, seeing _double_ out of the eye now.

“It means _stop being a stoic_ and _go get some damned help._ You regrew a bloody _eye_ all by yourself in the span of a day, good job,” Emet-Selch mimed applause, “but clearly something has gone wrong. You even tried to refuse me--stop trying to do everything yourself.”

Grumbling, Azem reached past him to retrieve his mask. “Did Tal put you up to this?”

“I put myself up to it, thank you very much. I’m tired of watching you squint and twitch and fidget through meetings. The sooner you’re whole and hale the sooner everyone will _stop asking me questions_.”

And _that_ , at the last, finally got him to agree.


	10. Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tal comes to understand what was so important about the idea of home, and mourns the loss of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For day 19, Where the Heart Is. You can yell at me or find information about supporting my work on twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled).

The lift didn’t work, despite seeming intact from the outside. After a moment he managed to pry open the doors, found the cables had snapped, the box at the bottom. He only sensed one presence in the rubble, further up, wrapped so tight on itself it was almost invisible--he only caught it by familiarity. He leapt to the side of the lift shaft and began to climb.

Further up the doors had been ripped off by something with giant claws. He climbed out into a small antechamber with two doors, one off its hinges entirely and lying splintered across the floor. The other stood open, but untouched. The wall, though--something had gone crashing through at some point, leaving a shattered mess of plaster and twisted metal.

Azem stepped over the threshold into what had once been his own flat. A thick trail of ichor smeared the white sofa, turned on its back, and a screen on one wall had shattered entirely. Long gouge marks exposed the stuffing of another chair. The picture window along one wall had broken out, scattering fine shards of glass everywhere, and wind whipped through the flat.

Tal stood silently, robe thrown open over his armor and mask in his hand, long wisps of hair loose from his braid. A number of photographs hung on one wall, a blood spatter marring several of them--landscapes, portraits of people unmasked, and one of themselves, hands held up before the camera to show off matching rings--blood had blacked out their faces entirely. His rich blue eyes darted from one to the next, regarding each of them in some degree of quiet horror, heedless the dried blood slicked down his cheek.

Azem came to a stop within arm’s reach, but didn’t interrupt him. Instead he reached out towards that tightly held ball of emotions, barely perceptible. Tal sucked in a sharp, short breath, turning his head, and finally revealing the fine, clean track through the blood on his cheek. “I never thought I would care so much about _things_ ,” he said, voice shaking.

“Perhaps it’s not the things,” Azem said, “but what they represent.”

“Memories,” Tal said, jerkily looking back to the wall of photos. “Somewhere to keep them. I never had that, before. And now that I have to walk away from it--” He cut off, voice suddenly tight, gauntleted hands balling into fists at his sides. “We can fight. This is _our_ home, too. We can--” Azem took a sudden step forward and gathered Tal into his arms, cutting him off with an almost crushing embrace. Tal stiffened, a little whisper of reflexive magic on the air, then remembered himself and broke apart. He buried his face in Azem’s neck and sobbed, letting his mask slip from his fingers. That tight ball of emotions cracked apart, and Azem wrapped himself around it, quietly pleaded with fate for a little luck; the building had been evacuated as unstable, but if anyone happened to sense either of them….

They stayed like that for a long time, until the rage and the sorrow roiling over the sweet sunset warmth in his arms was the worn out grey of a dreary afternoon. He wanted to crack apart, too, to scream and cry and rail and possibly _hit_ something, but walking through the city and seeing it for his own eyes had doused that fire, banked the coals. They’d barely recovered from their previous fight, and even if they somehow managed to win against the greedy horror the Convocation had summoned, the collateral damage would threaten what precious few lives remained in the city. “Azem,” Tal murmured, finally wrapping his arms around him.

“You can’t rightly call me that any more,” he corrected.

Tal stiffened in his arms, and he felt a somewhat clumsy touch against the borders of his spirit. “Did they strip the power from you?”

“No. I didn’t give them time.”

“Then you’re still Azem,” Tal muttered, a bit petulantly, then lifted his head and drew away. “Don’t have to come up with a new name for you.”

“If we stay much longer they’ll take the opportunity,” Azem said. “Come on. Only what you can carry.”

“I have everything I need.” Tal’s hand darted out and grabbed Azem’s. “Let’s go.”


	11. Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hades takes the stage one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My makeup for day 17, fade. An extremely rough draft of something that might eventually appear in Perfect--until you see it there, though, it's not strictly canon. I sometimes make notes for scenes like this months or years in advance, and those notes tend to be a fully fleshed out version of the scene.
> 
> You can yell at me or find information about supporting my work on twitter [@AStormcalled](https://twitter.com/AStormcalled).

Aden stood for a moment in the low light of the Ocular, trying not to listen to the drone of the Tower. It was too different--like it was when he first set foot in the place. Perhaps that would be comforting one day, but for now it was too evocative of the loss he’d endured for sake of greater joy. While one was at hand, the other was still too near. He remembered cool crystal beneath his hands, pressed against his cheek. His lips.

Raha had taught him the trick to this moons ago, but whether this version of the Tower would answer his commands remained uncertain. Still, he'd rather do this alone if he could. Aden held up the deep purple stone, passing a thin thread of aether through it and into the control system, tapping his heel against the crystal just so to get a certain tone. The lights brightened, then dimmed to total darkness. He lowered his hand to his side, and waited.

 _If you are listening to this, then I am dead_ , Emet-Selch’s voice boomed--not the voice he had spoken with as Aden knew him, his _true_ voice, in the language of his homeland--the voice in the recordings on Azem’s crystal. _Most likely at your hands. The simulacrum of Hythlodaeus has carried out my final wish. Elidibus has been slain, or will be soon, and you have chosen to carry the burden I will have no doubt charged you with given the opportunity._

“And if you are _watching_ this,” a heavy _thud_ sounded as of a large switch being thrown, and a spotlight came on--or the appearance of one, as projected by the Ocular’s systems. Emet-Selch sat in a simple, unassuming wooden chair, dressed as he had been at the end--his Garlean appearance in his Ascian robes rather than his uniform. “Congratulations.” He looked up, slowly, and brought his hands together in equally slow applause, ringing as if in a large amphitheatre. The lights rose, and rather than the Ocular they stood upon a wooden stage. “Your shards always have been smarter than they looked.” Emet-Selch grinned smugly, settling one hand on his knee, and leaning his weight into it in a slouch. “I should expect the one to finally best me would be smart enough to realize my crystal would not be meant for my replacement.”

He rose, slowly, as if aching and weary, but to his full height rather than his customary slouch. “I am sorry I was unable to save you, as I swore I would.” He made perfect, steady, unwavering eye contact for just a moment--and the Echo kicked into overdrive as it always did around an Ascian, but there were only embers and ash off the stone, memories of memories. _Sincerity_ , _unguarded_. Emet-Selch held his gaze for a long moment, then relented, and looked away. “But I am glad, too, that it is over, one way or another. I could have had faith, all those ages ago, in _you_. The end was upon us, though, and I could not--” He cut off, looking up briefly, then back down, and shook his head. “I could not bear to lose you. And so I lost you another way, a far more torturous one, watching the jagged pieces of you go through all the motions of playing at being men and women and unwittingly bearing out the deepest parts of your heart. Never knowing the legacy, the true light they carried.”

Emet-Selch paced a little to the side, his boots ringing against the wood. “By now you have seen Amaurot, and I pray that it has stirred some semblance of memory in you, incomplete as it may be.” The gray mist at the edge of the stage coalesced into a detailed backdrop of Amaurot’s skyline, painted in artful detail--but painted for stage nonetheless. “If not, the stone surely will. And I… regret that I am not there to see it, whatever it is. That I was not the one to steer you proudly about the city, to paint every avenue in vivid memory.” He looked down with a soft, nearly breathless noise, his lips curling slightly and just barely parted. The windows on the backdrop lit up with gentle, homey lights. “I have spoken your name to every shard I have had the pleasure and displeasure of meeting. Not once have I seen recognition. It pains me, every time, like a _lance_ through my heart,” he brought up a fist, pounded his chest once as if holding the haft of a piercing spear--half melodrama, half salute. “Odysseus.” He let his hand fall away, staring blankly into the distance. “You never liked that name, did you? _The angry one_ \--they called you that because it was _true_ , you were, but you were _more_ , and they should’ve seen it. Of course you’ve never answered. No, I think the moment you entered the world you were already _Azem_ , waiting to be seen. It always suited you better.”

“A hundred names I’ve known you by. Sometimes one will have your coloring, or the eye you lost will be golden. One might have your voice, or a shimmer to their hair--but never all these things at once, never a complete vision of _you_. Until, of course, this one. I hoped. Oh, how I hoped. I am glad here at the last to be proven right in some small way.” Emet-Selch smiled softly, and glanced sidelong at him. “I hope you like what they call you now. It sounds so like _Azem_.”

The shade abruptly turned, pacing to stand behind the chair and resting one hand on the back. “If you have already laid Elidibus to rest, then nothing needs be said. Thank you. You will surely understand by now. If you have not, then I am sorry to put you in this position. And I am sorry for whatever it may have cost you.” Emet-Selch looked away, head bowed slightly. So much of his body language seemed _drastically_ different, calculated and choreographed, but the Echo stil rang with _truth_. “About now you may be thinking to yourself, this seems like an awful lot of apologies from a man who has caused you and your kind much suffering. Are they all for his own conscience? What are they worth?” He lifted his head, making eye contact once more with eerie accuracy. “I say nothing to assuage my own conscience, because I no longer possess one; it died with Hythlodaeus. There are only two things in my heart: my mission, and my faith. And my faith will not permit me the crisis of conscience such words would assuage. They are, in a way, _hollow_ , of no value but to the memory that drives me. At times I confess I speak not to you, but to what you were. What you might be, with Azem’s stone in hand.” He gestured with his free hand in Aden’s direction, and Aden’s hand tightened around the crystal, eyes narrowing--it _wasn’t_ Azem’s crystal he held in hand, and surely Emet-Selch would have known that.

Emet-Selch’s hand stilled mid-gesture, fingers curling into a fist. “No.” He looked away, and let his arm fall. “You would hate me for that--every version of you that ever lived, even the one I cherished. I would rather you hate me for the things I did.” His fingers flexed on the back of the chair, his shoulders heaved with a single, heavy breath. Aden watched the false figure, tail twitching in a mix of irritation and curiosity. Perhaps this drama, this act _was_ the man--and that was why the Echo rang with truth. Emet-Selch muttered, almost too quiet to hear, “If you’ve slain me, you have more than proven yourself, and I must accept you _as you_ ; I will have no other version of you, now.”

He looked back, regarding Aden more seriously. “I have re-recorded this dozens of times over the ages,” he said. “Sometimes compelled by my faith to try and tempt you from beyond the grave. Sometimes railing at you, demanding to know why you did the things you did at the end. I think, if not for my faith, I would understand; once, I knew your mind. Every time I meet you, I think, perhaps this one will be the one--perhaps they will remember, or finally get the better of me--but this time I fear I will not have another chance. I have to get it right.” He sighed, leaning heavily on the chair. “I won’t delete that and start over. You should hear all of it. All of it’s true, and the apologies are sincere, even if they come from the memory of a feeling, and not the feeling itself.”

“Why, then,” he looked away, muttering to himself once more. “Why say any of it?” When next he looked at Aden it was with a strange softness to his eyes. “You were like a brother to me once,” he said. “You, and Hythlodaeus. You were my whole world. Everything I have done, I have done for you, even knowing you would hate me for it--even knowing you would think it despicable--because I couldn’t live in a world with no hope of ever seeing you again. I realized at the last, when you left to defend Amaurot without me, that I was weak. I feared your death--and Hythlodaeus’ death--more than anything. I grasped for the power I thought would save you. All this time, I have held on to that desire. To save you.” Both hands gripped the back of the chair, putting much of his weight on it. “I make no excuses, I only wish to give the part of you I know craves understanding some closure. I desire no pity. If you have slain me--which you surely have--then I regret once again I did not put my faith in you. Perhaps you never needed saving at all--perhaps I did it for _me_. You certainly did not _ask_ me for it--and I think I know what this _current_ collection of shards would say about that.” 

A little smile curled his lips, soft and strangely familiar--a bit _mischievous,_ maybe. Aden’s tail twitched sympathetically, with the strange, unspecific memory of the sleeping ancient within him. Emet-Selch straightened, stepped around the chair and crossed to stand in front of Aden, so close he could see the little motes of light that made up the illusion. “Thank you,” he said, “for putting me to rest.” The stage slowly lit up further, little bands of purple and pink and orange behind the painted Amaurot. “I charge you again to remember us. Elidibus cannot--this task must fall to you. All that we were, all that our memory might inspire--it is yours.” Light shone across the stage from behind Aden, low and honeyed golden, casting Aden’s shadow long--tall as an Ancient might have been. Emet-Selch, too, cast a shadow from this source, just as long. “And if I might make one selfish request--amidst whatever else you might feel, whatever I have surely earned, remember that I loved you. You were my family, Azem.” His gaze darted away for just a second, eyes catching the golden sunrise, “No,” and then back, once again making eerily pointed eye contact. “ _Aden_.”

The room went dark, and the dim light of the powered down Ocular slowly returned. Aden stood there, staring at the spot Emet-Selch had occupied, the crystal gripped tight in his hand. He did _not_ remember, not the way Emet-Selch wished. His Azem was gone, but _Aden_ had clawed his way out of those ashes--and at the last, it seemed, he’d _understood_. Azem’s unfinished business was Aden’s burden to bear, and that included laying his brother to rest, and not letting the memory of their people fade. He could not speak _past_ Aden as he had in life, to the thing behind him--to the past--because it was _inside_ Aden, sleeping, part of him.

“Hades,” he answered, to the quiet hum of the Tower. He tucked the crystal away safely with the others, and as he turned to go he slipped a hand into the pocket where Azem’s crystal sat, rubbing his thumb over it like a worry stone.


End file.
